


Bookmarked

by Saucery



Series: Spideypool Stories [9]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, And Boy Does It Show, Assassins & Hitmen, Bad Puns, Banter, Companionable Snark, Consent Issues, Desire, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Filthy, Flirting, Humor, I Know Nothing About Being A Librarian, Inaccurate, Inappropriate Erections, Intimidation, Librarians, Libraries, Library Sex, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Muscles, Obedience, Orders, Pansexual Character, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Puns & Word Play, Research, Sassy Peter, Secret Identity, Secrets, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Stalking, Strength Kink, Voice Kink, Wade Escapes Ajax Just Before Getting Scarred, Wade is still Deadpool, Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex, absolute filth, but Peter isn't Spider-man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: Peter is a mousy little librarian hiding a bit of a wild side. Wade drags it out into the open. (With his words and his lips and his hands.)





	Bookmarked

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of smutty scenes set in my librarian ’verse. It’s basically just an excuse for Wade to debauch Peter against bookshelves. My kinks are so transparent.

* * *

 

Peter had seen some pretty interesting stuff since he’d started working at the New York State Library, but this? This was something else.

There was a guy who stopped by to look up the weirdest shit, from criminal records to sewer maps to architectural blueprints of historic skyscrapers, and Peter was half-sure he was either a terrorist planning an attack or a thief gathering intelligence for a heist. He had the aura of a criminal about him, of a rogue whose morality was dangerously fluid.

That, and he was super hot.

It… It wasn’t Peter’s fault that he  _noticed_. Anyone would notice. The man with the name “Wade Wilson” on his library card was a tall, built fellow in a brown suede jacket and ripped jeans, jeans that clung to his bulging, muscular thighs and to an ass so perfect that it proved the Darwinian theory of evolution. He had handsome features that were mobile and clever and somehow devilish, and he had a perpetual smirk pasted on his face that kinda made Peter want to punch him. It also made Peter want to ride his dick, which was… inconvenient.

The asshole—because Peter was sure he was an asshole—seemed to notice Peter and Peter’s stupid crush right back, which was even more inconvenient. He leaned against the counter and leered at Peter as Peter blushed and stammered through answering increasingly bizarre questions about increasingly disturbing newspaper articles from the 1980s, articles about a serial killer nicknamed Ajax and about experimental cancer treatments gone awry. None of it made any sense, or had any consistency in theme or content, and a part of Peter was honestly paying attention to the details, because everything about them screamed “creepy as hell.”

There were times, when Peter mentioned Ajax, that Wilson’s eyes narrowed alarmingly, and Peter was about two seconds away from asking him not to shoot any of the folks in the library if he was gonna go on a rampage, thanks. But then Wilson’s expression would clear and he’d go back to leering, making Peter feel as uncomfortable in his pants as he was feeling in his  _head_.

It was bizarre. It was inexplicable. And yet, Peter both dreaded and anticipated these visits from the literal devil on his shoulder, because if Peter had to imagine what that devil would look like, Wade Wilson would be it. When Peter went home in the evenings and jacked off furtively in his bed, he imagined that devil whispering filthy suggestions into his ear, talking him into doing things he’d never have the guts to do in real life.

Which only made Peter blush even redder when he ran into Wilson the next day, or when Wilson ran into  _him_ , which he seemed to be doing with uncannily accurate regularity. It was almost as if he was keeping track of Peter’s shifts, but that couldn’t be, because Peter was the least likely person on the planet to ever acquire a stalker. Peter just didn’t have anything about him that would stand out, that would catch anybody’s attention. He probably fell right off people’s radars the moment they were finished talking to him. And he liked it like that. Normally.

His obsession with Wilson wasn’t normal.

It became even less normal when suddenly, on a random Tuesday afternoon (was Wilson unemployed, or did he just work nights?), Wilson showed up with a pile of books on genetic mutations, grinned disconcertingly at Peter throughout the checkout process, and then dropped this bombshell:

“It’s not just my books you’re checking out, is it?”

Peter froze, simultaneously horrified and mortified, and felt himself go slowly, agonizingly red. Miraculously, he managed to speak. “They aren’t just your books,  _are they_ ,” he corrected, like the smartass he absolutely wasn’t, and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Get your plurals straight.”

“But I’m not straight,” Wilson pouted.  _Pouted_ , what even—wasn’t Wilson a grown man? Grown men didn’t pout.

Except for this one, apparently. “These books are due in a fortnight,” Peter continued doggedly, despite his cheeks still glowing like twin plutonium deposits.

“My, my,” Wilson murmured, smiling. “So you’ve got balls, after all. I like it. And I like balls in general, but yours? Yours are special.”

Peter could not believe he was being hit on by a patron. He just. He couldn’t believe it. It was like a scene out of a terribly clichéd romance movie, or maybe a scene out of terribly clichéd porn. Either way, it was terrible. And clichéd.

It was still turning him on.

And Wilson knew that, damn him. It was in the wicked glint of his eyes and the shark-like hook of his smile.

“I’m… I’m working,” Peter said. “Please don’t disrupt the order of this library with your—your—”

“My what? My depravity? Fine, I won’t. But only if you let me disrupt the order of your _clothes_. Rough ’em up a bit, my hands up that preppy sweater-vest of yours, thumbing your cute li’l nipples, tugging your shirt out of true. My mouth biting you just where the V-neck parts, undoing your tie with my teeth. When I’m done with you, your glasses will be all fogged up and your trousers will be ruined by all the coming you’ll be doing in ’em.” Wilson tilted his head in a mockery of polite inquiry. “Whaddaya say? Are you—heh— _up_ for it?”

Peter just stood there, dumbstruck. Eventually, his parched throat unstuck itself enough for him to rasp: “How do you know my nipples are…”

“Cute? Because you are.”

Peter was transforming into the world’s only human lava lamp. He hadn’t even known it was possible to flush this hotly and completely, every inch of his skin ablaze. He was sweating. There was a slow shock rippling through him as the images Wilson had conjured paraded through his mind, accompanied by the frankly terrifying knowledge that Wilson had pictured them first, that Wilson had been picturing them all along, undressing Peter with his eyes when Peter hadn’t even been aware of it.

He was aware of it now. Wilson’s gaze darkened as it took in Peter’s expression, as it slid down Peter’s body, palpable as a touch.

Peter swayed, his knees going weak as he fetched up against the desk. He was hard. He desperately needed a bathroom break to take care of it, but he couldn’t leave the cover of the desk, not when his journey to the bathroom would have him flashing unsuspecting retirees and schoolchildren with his erection.

“Excuse me—oh, forgive me, dears. Am I interrupting?”

Peter jumped about a foot in the air. Behind Wilson hovered an elderly lady in a pearl-studded ivory cardigan, carrying a bunch of children’s books, doubtless for her grandchildren.

Shame swooped through Peter. His job was to help innocent visitors like these, not to flirt with perverts. Peter shoved Wilson’s genetics textbooks toward him, not even sparing Wilson a glance, and addressed the grandmother. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “Yes, I’m free. Would you like to check those out?”

In the background, Wilson chuckled—a hoarse, hungry chuckle—before walking away.

  


* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)! I also run a blog for my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/).


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